My First ML Buck with a White

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Browning

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Oct 17, 2017
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It was late September of 2000 and I had just spent the summer getting acquainted with my new White .50 caliber Super 91. I topped it with a Millet Red Dot scope and was quite pleased with the package. So far, the relationship was blossoming and I had a hunch this was going to be a long term affair. I’d worked up a load of 95 grains of Pyrodex behind a 460 gr. No Excuse Conical slug. At the range, my son was watching through the spotting scope and said it was grouping under two inches at a hundred yards. I don’t know if it was the gun or me or if he was just trying to spare my feelings, regardless, he said I was ready to go hunting and I always believe what he tells me…except about my I-Phone I’m quite certain all that was a lie to confuse me. With a day like that on the range, I could go home and walk right by the treadmill and sleep like a baby.

I had been invited to hunt the Boulder Mountains down by Escalante, Utah with my two good friends, Paul and Brent. This area had been closed by the DWR for the last five years for conservation purposes and they had just re-opened it for this year’s muzzeloader deer hunt. All of us were excited and hopeful that we’d have good opportunities to see quality bucks. The landscape consisted of areas of dense pine with sporadic pockets of Quaking Aspen punctuated with small meadows of sage and wild flowers, all spread over some fairly steep terrain. I knew I needed to get in better condition, but unfortunately, my friendship with my treadmill had been on the rocks lately and we weren’t getting along. Add to that the mysterious extra ten pounds that had worked its way under my belt, and I was starting to rethink our entire relationship.

My buddies got out of town before I did; I had to stay behind a day because of work requirements. I hate it when responsible behavior overrides my intense desire to be a slacker. The drive from my home town of Kaysville, Utah, twenty miles north of Salt Lake City, down to the southern part of the state took most of the day and by the time I arrived in camp, the sun was setting and I was famished. I couldn’t wait to get my gear stowed and break out the cooler. My mouth was watering for a baggie filled with Pigs-in-a-blanket from the day before and the rest of my warm Diet Coke from the gas station off I-70…OK, that’s a lie, my mouth wasn’t watering and they were in a Tupperware container but I was still hungry. Fortunately for me, Paul and Brent were excellent cooks; they had the kitchen set up and dinner on the Camp Chef. We dined on grilled Kokanee salmon, Elk steaks, fried potatoes and onions accessorized with an ice cold Coke and I mean to tell you, it was really good. I felt bad about neglecting my pigs-in-a-blanket, but sacrifices had to be made.

I volunteered for clean up duty and in short order; everything was washed, dried and put away. The fire popped and crackled as the occasional spark drifted toward the stars. The firelight danced in the tall pines as we sat around the table going over topo maps by lamplight. We put together a plan for the next day and which part of the mountain each of us would tackle. With that in place, we retired to a cozy wall tent and cots topped with four inches of memory foam and a warm sleeping bag. Sleep eluded me as scenarios of that big buck and I playing hide-n-seek in the forest invaded my brain. He was up there; I just needed to find him. As I drifted off, I’m pretty sure my last image was of him hanging on the meat pole in camp.

0 dark thirty came waaay too early, it seemed like I had barely closed my eyes and Paul was kicking my cot, telling me to turn off the dang alarm. Breakfast was a mix of pre-made scrambled eggs, sausage, hash brown potatoes, onions and peppers, heated in a pan and rolled into a warm tortilla. We call this “Kickstarter”, it’s fast, tasty and sticks with you all morning. I thought about my pigs-in-a-blanket but only for a second. Lunches of fruit, sandwiches, snacks and bottled water were stowed in backpacks in preparation for spending the entire day on the mountain. It’s a tough climb and once you’re up there, it’s an all day affair.We shut the camp down and with packs loaded and barrel’s fouled, each of us set off in our prospective directions in the dark. The shadows from my headlight moved through the surrounding forest like Gremlins tracking me along the trail, or it could have been Big Foot, either way, I was glad for the company, It’s a long walk to my target ridge and I was praying they weren’t after my elk jerky, thank God I left the piggies back in the cooler.

Two hours and a near heart attack later, the sky was getting light in the east as I approached the ridge top. I stopped just shy of the crest to look for an oxygen canister to help me catch my breath but came up empty, dam treadmill. Once I recovered, I slowly approached the top and peered over into the next valley. I was looking at a perfect saddle bordered by pines and pockets of Quaking Aspens. The main body of the saddle was sage, wildflowers and bitter brush. I pulled out my puffer and gave it a squeeze, the powder drifted up and past my face, the wind was traveling up the canyon and I was down wind, perfect. I quietly pulled off my pack, sat down just inside the pines where I could get a full view of the saddle, set the White across my legs and pulled up my Bino’s.

As I sat there gazing at the beautiful scenery, the image of my Father came to mind as he taught me the basics of hunting, “Son, if you spend twice as much time behind the glass as you do on the trail, your odds of scoring will go up, be patient, be diligent, be still.” I’ve never forgot that and it has always proved to be true. My problem was patience had always eluded me and I had the attention span of a gnat, but today, I would give it hell. It wasn’t long before deer started to filter over the saddle, most of them does, each one causing my heart to skip a beat. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t grow antlers on any of them. But still, I waited, and waited and waited some more. Surely there had to be a buck in there.

The sun was up now and from my vantage point, I could get a clear view into the pines on both sides. I had no sooner had the thought about the buck when I noticed branches moving along behind the pine boughs on the far side of the saddle. Wait a sec, branches don’t do that! It’s a buck! But I couldn’t tell how big, he was still in tall brush with his head down feeding on the browse at the edge of the pines. I steadied my bino’s across my knees and followed him; finally he took a step out and lifted his head. He was tall with four deep points on each side just passed his ears. Not a monster, but he would make a nice typical mount, provide jerky, burger and stew meat for the coming year. I pulled up my rangefinder and hit the button, three hundred twenty three yards, as hard as I tried, I could not will him to come further into the saddle, one of us was going to have to get closer. The same thing was happening with women I’d been trying to date and I was beginning to get a serious complex.

I eased out of my spot, shouldered my pack and snuck down off the ridge the same way I had come up, this time moving across to a rock outcropping about half way through the saddle. When I reached the rocks, I pulled off the pack and took a minute to gather my wits, “Don’t screw this up Boyo, go slow.” I inched up and over the top barely enough to glass the buck’s location. He was still there, head down and clueless, at least we had something in common. I ranged him at 118 yards, a chip shot for the White, but my golf game sucked on a monumental scale so anything was possible.

I checked the scope for the red dot, raised the white and rested it over my pack. Now he was faced away from me, allowing only a Texas heart shot, “C’mon buddy give me just a quarter turn and we’re in business.” Suddenly, the buck raised his head, ears forward, staring intently down the draw. Uh oh, I knew what that meant, something had him spooked and it wasn’t me. I drew up the scope to put the dot on his shoulder, when without warning he abruptly turned and started trotting across the saddle toward my previous location, figures freakin Murphy would follow me up here. It was now or never, another ten seconds and he would be in the wind for good. I tracked him as he went, leading him about eight inches at the front of the shoulder and touched off the trigger.

Through the smoke, I saw him jump and kick as he did an about face and turned right down the draw. Not that way! Now I have to pack you back UP the hill, that dang treadmill was really starting to tick me off. I slid down off the rocks, re-loaded the White and shouldered my pack to start the blood trail, which turned out to be non-existent. I slowed my pace and went bush to bush, leaf to leaf until I finally found hair, then a drop of blood and another. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to encourage me. I told myself I’d made a good shot, what else could I do? I had to say something to make myself feel better about it.

I had my head down and completely focused on the blood trail when he blew up out of the sage ten feet away, causing me to have a near lower bowel disaster as I screamed like a girl. He was staggering toward the tree line when I lifted the White and sent a second round through the boiler room, putting him to bed. As I walked up on him, he was dead. There is always a twinge of sadness when I take such a majestic animal, I was truly grateful for his life and what he would provide for my family. I called Paul and Brent on the radio and gave my location. Paul said he was close and would be right up to help. By the time Paul arrived, I had the buck cleaned, caped, quartered and the meat bagged for the trip out. After the cleaning, I found the slugs buried in the meat, fully mushroomed with deep penetration. My first shot had been a bit back of the main vital area but still into the lungs. The White had done its job and done it well. It’s a shame there was no one there to film the event, if they could delete out the screaming like a girl part, I was sure to get my own reality show!

The pack out was far easier than the trek up and even though my pack was loaded and heavy, my step was a bit quicker and lighter. That night around the fire, we had backstraps cooked ala Steven Rinella of the Meateater show, breaded in seasoned flour with onions and herbs, deep fried in a light olive oil, very tasty. With a healthy fire dancing in the pit, cold Cokes and full bellies, we regaled each other with tales of the days hunt, each interspersed with small white lies and crossed fingers. Funny how friends can get away with that but if a visitor were to try it, all of our Bullsh*t meters would peg out and the eye rolling would commence.

You know, I like to tell people that it’s not about whether you kill something or not, It’s more about the experience of being in the woods with good friends and sharing the camaraderie of the hunt that matters most…but having said that, when you come out heavy, it seems to matter just a bit more.

By the way, I have a treadmill for sale if anyone’s interested.
 
:lol: Now that was quite a story!!! Congrats on the buck and with a White makes it even better!! You need to be published, you have a gift and getting it all down like that I felt I was right there with you all. Again Congratulations!!
 
First off congratulations!! That’s a great story, you should become a writer. Now had your White been a 451, that buck would have died right there or better know as DRT! LOL
 
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